


The 37th Annual Steve Walsh 6-and-Under Bigelow T-Ball Championship

by numinousnumbat



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crack, Drinking, F/M, M/M, Swearing, puns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-10-12 02:24:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20556662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/numinousnumbat/pseuds/numinousnumbat
Summary: Anathema has a plan, Newt could use a holiday, and Crowley and Aziraphale have nothing better to do. Answering the question no one asked: What if Crowley and Aziraphale coached a t-ball team?





	The 37th Annual Steve Walsh 6-and-Under Bigelow T-Ball Championship

** _Three Weeks Before The 37th Annual Steve Walsh 6-and-Under Bigelow T-Ball Championship_ **

“You want us to go _where_ and do _whaaat_?” Crowley said, sounding incredulous and indignant all at once. He was, however, still sprawled across the sofa with his head on the armrest and his feet in Aziraphale’s lap, so overall, he didn’t seem too put off.

Anathema barreled on. “Bigelow, Kansas. To obtain a magical family heirloom.”

“We could, erm, grab it for you, right, Crowley?” Aziraphale nodded over his wine. “A wee bit of a miracle. No problem at all.”

“Just buy it.” Crowley waved a hand in the air. “My side didn’t invent the exchange of paper for goods and services, but I understand that it’s an effective method to get what you want.”

“My side didn’t invent that either,” Aziraphale said mostly to himself.

Anathema didn’t care which side invented what. “That’s the problem,” she said, leaning forward in her chair and setting her wine glass down on the coffee table. “It will only work if it’s earned, and in this case that means _won_.”

“Won how?” Crowley looked over at her, giving the appearance of peering over his glasses, despite his sunglasses staying firmly in place.

“It’s, uh, like a baseball tournament. For kids. Little kids.”

“Baseball!” Aziraphale’s face lit up. He looked over to Crowley. “I do love baseball. Is Ty Cobb still playing?”

“Retired, I think,” Anathema said smoothly.

“So you want us to, what, turn into children in order to play baseball and win this trophy?” Crowley scoffed.

“Didn’t know that was an option,” Anathema said. “But I was hoping that you could be persuaded to come over for a few weeks and coach the team. It’s a yearly tournament that starts the Fourth of July town festival. We play against Freeport, and when you win, I can get the trophy back. Uh, for my family, of course. It’s meaningful.”

“We’ll defeat those Freeportians!” Aziraphale said, making a motion like he was serving a tennis ball.

“Ah,” Crowley said, relaxing back into the armrest, “luckily I know how to cheat.”

Aziraphale looked horrified, and placed a hand over his heart. “Anathema, please tell Crowley there is to be no cheating.”

Anathema, who at age 5 had used a bit of magic to hit a home run for the Bigelow team and win the championship, looked Crowley straight in the sunglasses and said, “Cheating is most definitely _not_ allowed.”

☾ ☾ ☾

“It worked!!” Anathema called out as she let herself into Newt’s mum’s house. Newt was sitting at the kitchen table, reading a newspaper.

“That’s great!” he said, jumping up and pulling Anathema in for a kiss. “Does this mean there’s a trip to America in our future?” He turned and put the kettle on.

“It does. I think you’re going to be bored to tears in Kansas, though.”

“I went to the Louvre on a school trip and was bored,” Newt said. “I can be bored _anywhere_.”

Anathema nodded. “And since Crowley and Aziraphale are there, we’ll at least have plenty to drink.”

“Did I tell you the last time we had wine at theirs I kept thinking of the most kinky things we’ve done together to see if they could read minds?” Newt giggled.

“You hadn’t mentioned, but they’re probably not too interested in _that_,” Anathema replied.

“Are you going to tell me more about this spell?” he asked.

“It’s just a spell.” Anathema said, shrugging her shoulders. “Standard witch stuff. Oh, and Aunt Calliope is excited to meet you, too.”

“She’ll be the second witch I’ve met,” Newt said as he grabbed Anathema’s mug from the drying rack. He leaned against the counter. “Known witch, I suppose. Who’s to say that I haven’t met loads of witches before.”

“Exactly right,” Anathema replied.

☾ ☾ ☾

Crowley miracled Aziraphale and himself to Bigelow, Kansas a few days later, a couple of days before the t-ball season was to begin.

They walked down the main street, which was deserted in the mid-morning hours. Aziraphale was window-shopping, while Crowley was inspecting the cars parked along the road. They walked past a real estate office, a toy store, and then paused in front of a bookstore, Tome on the Range. Aziraphale looked inside the dusty window, bit his lip and looked at Crowley.

“Fine,” Crowley said, throwing his hands into the air, “I’ll get you the bookshop.”

The bell over the door tinkled as they walked in. An older man was sitting behind the counter, books piled everywhere. “Welcome,” he called out. “I’m Tom and this is my place. Let me know if you need anything.” He picked up a quarter and started rubbing a scratch off lottery game.

Crowley sighed. “Come on - it’s too easy.” He looked over at Aziraphale who nodded towards Tom. Crowley flicked his fingers in the direction of the man.

Tom was whispering under his breath as he scratched. “Six, six … SIX!!” He jumped out of his chair. “I just won $666,” he exclaimed.

“What a surprise,” Crowley said dryly. “And what are you going to do with your winnings?”

“I guess I’ll take some time off and head up to Minnesota and go fishing.”

“Love fishing,” Crowley said. “So I have a deal for you.”

A few minutes later, Tom was handing his keys over and thanking Crowley and Aziraphale for looking after his shop, Aziraphale politely ignoring everything Tom was saying about taxes and keeping receipts and opening hours. Seemingly afraid they would change their minds, Tom grabbed a book off the shelf - _All About That Bass_ \- and ran out the door, shouting about deliveries or something.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said clutching Crowley’s hands. “I don’t know how I would have survived three years without my books.”

“Three weeks,” Crowley corrected. “And it was nothing.”

Tom had a fondness for books about the West, the Civil War and birds, but his rent was mostly paid with the steady sales of mystery and romance novels. The shop smelled a bit musty and everywhere that couldn’t be reached by Tom's half-hearted weekly feather dusting was covered in a thick layer of dust.

“It’s _perfect_,” Aziraphale breathed out, turning around to take in the place.

Crowley miracled a sofa to the back room. New place, new temptations. This was going to be a good holiday.

☾ ☾ ☾

“I didn’t know it was possible for a child to scream for 12 hours straight,” Anathema said dully as they waited for their luggage in the Kansas airport baggage claim.

“Every muscle in my body feels like a lorry ran over it,” Newt responded. “Twice.”

Anathema tried to smile, but a day’s worth of air travel left her smile more of a pained grimace. “Aunt Calliope said she’d be here. Let me see if she’s sent any texts.”

As Anathema pulled out her phone, Newt touched her arm. “I think our ride is here.” Crowley all in black was slinking through the crowd. He stopped in front of them.

“Airports,” Crowley said like he was starting a speech on the complete history of aviation. “Airports do my work for me. Well, my previous work. _Love_ airports.” A woman with a giant suitcase ran over his foot and kept walking without seeming to have noticed what she’d done. “Love the _idea_ of airports,” he amended.

“Is Aunt Calliope ok?” Anathema asked.

“She’s fine, I assume. She rang my mobile this morning and asked very nicely if I could pop over to the airport to collect you two and didn’t give me a chance to refuse before she hung up on me.” Crowley shook his head.

“Oh, the midwestern favor; sorry.” Anathema replied. "Well, besides airport duty, how is Bigelow treating you?”

“Two people have brought us pie. And whatever a casserole is,” Crowley said. “Aziraphale is running the bookshop for the next few weeks.”

“Tome on the Range!” Anathema interjected happily. “My first summer here, I wanted to buy _A Room of One’s Own_, but it wasn’t in stock, so I bought a collection of essays on Lilith instead.”

“Of course you did,” Crowley said fondly. “Let’s get out of here.” And with that, Crowley miracled the three of them and their luggage to the center of the bookshop.

“Welcome back!” Aziraphale called from where he was hiding his favorite books behind the counter.

“What! what just happened?” Newt looked around wildly.

“Won’t someone notice?” Anathema said somewhat hysterically staring at what was definitely not the baggage claim area of the airport.

“Liminal spaces,” Crowley said with a shrug. “Lots of weird stuff happening at airports. You can do whatever you want at an airport.”

“But _how_ did we get here?” Anathema said.

“Just a tiny miracle,” Crowley said. “I started driving to fetch you two but it was very flat and I got bored.”

“Could you have ‘miracled’ us from London?” Newt asked, massaging his aching neck.

“Of course, why?” Crowley answered.

“No reason,” Newt said glumly.

Aziraphale popped up from behind the counter. He was wearing an old-fashioned baseball uniform: striped shirt, striped trousers tucked into socks at his knee, and a baseball hat.

“Love the threads,” Crowley purred.

“Does he-” Newt started.

“It’s _perfect_,” Anathema interrupted.

Aziraphale bobbled his head happily. “Oh, we received a flyer while you were gone letting us know that Dine Every Mountain - the restaurant out by the motorway - has both the best burger in town and a senior citizen discount.”

“You want me to take you to a place with a _senior citizen discount_?” Crowley looked horrified.

“You don’t look a day over 3000, 3500 tops!” Aziraphale said cheerfully.

Newt and Anathema were saved from more bickering by the bell on the door. An older woman walked in. “Tom, hello - Anathema?” she said taking her glasses off. “Anathema Device, is that you?”

“Violet!” Anathema said, striding forward to hug the older woman. “How are you?”

“Last I heard, you were in Wichita!”

“England, actually,” Anathema said. “How’s Marty?”

“You know Marty, he’s a handful. Now who are these people?” Violet turned to take in Crowley, Aziraphale and Newt.

“This is Newt, my boyfriend,” Anathema said. “And this is Crowley and Aziraphale my - “ she paused, realizing they hadn’t come up with this part of the story yet. “Uncles,” she decided on.

“Friends,” Aziraphale said.

“Acquaintances,” Crowley said.

“Oh?” Violet said. “That sounds complicated.”

“When I said that I was taking a vacation back home, everyone wanted to come.” Anathema smiled.

“To _Kansas_?” Violet asked. “Isn’t your mother still in California?”

“Anathema has talked about her summers here so vividly I think we all wanted to experience this small piece of Americana,” Newt said loyally.

“Was California an option?” Aziraphale asked no one in particular.

☾ ☾ ☾

  
Anathema and Newt left Tome on the Range to drop their things off at Calliope’s house and take a jet lag nap, which was saying “Let’s stay up to become acclimated this time zone” and then passing out for sixteen hours.

Anathema woke up, consulted her watch, which didn’t make any sort of sense with the amount of light outside and then her phone, which confirmed the watch was correct. She sighed and poked Newt awake so he could make tea for them.

They blearily walked back to Tome on the Range, where Crowley and Aziraphale were arguing about Roman history, maybe. It involved a detailed map drawn on the wall and a few hundred neon-colored post-it notes.

Anathema had learned the hard way that it was best not to get involved in their disputes. “Are you two ready to become Bigelow’s newest t-ball coaches?” she asked.

“Wahoo?” Crowley replied with the enthusiasm of all t-ball coach volunteers.

Anathema, Newt, Crowley and Aziraphale walked down the main street to Rudie Can’t Nail, the hardware store that doubled as the de facto headquarters for the t-ball tournament.

“Is there a test or anything?” Aziraphale asked.

“Showing up _is_ the test,” Anathema said. “The year I played they found the coaches by offering free beer at Dead Poets Sobriety 20 minutes before the tournament started.”

The group walked into the dim interior and Anathema made a beeline to the man wearing a “Luke” nametag at the cash register.

“If it isn’t little Anathema Device,” Luke said. “I thought you were in Topeka.”

“England, actually,” Anathema replied. As Luke and Anathema talked, the rest of the group milled around the store.

“I was wondering if you had found any coaches for the t-ball tournament,” Anathema asked, turning to business after enough small talk. “My uncles - Aziraphale and Crowley - are in town for a few weeks and I thought it might be a nice way for them to get to know the town.” This was it, her plan would continue or die horribly based on what happened next.

“Violet said they weren’t your uncles.” Shit.

“They’re my uncles the same as Aunt Calliope is my aunt.” Anathema tried for collected and cool and not nervous and sweating.

“So they’re also friends of your mom?”

“They’re my friends. Good friends. They’ve really taken me under their wing, so to speak, since I’ve been in England.”

“Are they qualified?” he asked as Aziraphale examined a bottle of coyote urine and Crowley poked at a giant bin of plastic flamingos.

“They are willing to coach both of the practices and the game.”

“Sounds good to me,” Luke said. “Hey boys!” he called out. Newt looked over and nudged Crowley and Aziraphale. “You’re hired. See you tomorrow.”

☾ ☾ ☾

Just before midnight, Anathema left Newt and Calliope sleeping at the house, and went to the town baseball field. The field was the home of the t-ball championship, the little league teams, the high school team, the adult softball league and - after a big rain - the local duck wading pool.

It was the night of the new moon, and she knelt in the center of the dark outfield and lit five white candles, and then myrrh incense. She chanted the spell three times and then blew out the candles.

The spell was started. She would complete it under the light of the full moon, on the night of the t-ball championship. After she had the trophy in her hand.

☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

_ **Two Weeks Before The 37th Annual Steve Walsh 6-and-Under Bigelow T-Ball Championship** _

Saturday morning was the first of two practices, and Crowley and Aziraphale had spent the previous night miracling some of their favorite wines from across the centuries and decidedly not learning the basics of t-ball.

“We’ll wing it,” Aziraphale said, ruffling his feathers that were currently in a different dimension that was unseeable and unknowable to humans. Aziraphale and Crowley were in the quite seeable and knowable Bigelow baseball field.

“Oi, kids, over here!” Crowley yelled. A dozen or so kids detached themselves from their parents and came to Crowley and Aziraphale, Crowley wearing black and Aziraphale, curiously, a Victorian horse riding outfit.

“You talk funny,” a boy said.

“No, _you_ talk funny,” Crowley replied. “Ok, first things first, what should we name the team this year?”

“FARTS!” a different boy yelled.

“Peter, no!” presumably Peter’s mom yelled.

“Bulbasaur!” a girl with pigtails said, with a small stomp of her foot.

“I don’t know who or what that is, but I also don’t care, Bulbasaurs it is,” Crowley said.

“Wait!” Aziraphale said. “What about jackalopes? I read about them in a book yesterday.”

“Jackalopes it is,” Crowley said, sparing a beaming smile to Aziraphale. “Ok, we need to win this year. What do we need to do to win?”

“Run fast!” a girl offered.

“FARTS!” Peter yelled again.

“Shouldn’t they be practicing?” a mom asked, suddenly in front of Crowley. “We’ve already wasted five minutes of practice time! The tournament is in two weeks!”

“Right,” Crowley said. “You are?”

“Susan Taylor-Smith, I’m Hailey’s mother. Time is ticking.”

“Humans do live such fleeting lives,” Aziraphale said wistfully.

Crowley saw the answer to his problems. “Susan, why don’t you get them started practicing while I do something with the … bats.”

Susan started yelling and the kids lined up and started tossing plastic balls back and forth. Crowley and Aziraphale let Susan lead the kids through tossing practice, hitting practice, and then running the bases this direction, no not that direction practice.

Crowley called the practice to a close, and reminded everyone that winning was important. It was hot and sunny and he just wanted to take a nap on a large flat rock or something.

Aziraphale dabbed at his brow with a handkerchief. “All of this coaching has me a bit peckish. Anyone else?”

☾ ☾ ☾

Calliope had invited everyone over for lunch, so they walked to her house after practice. Calliope lived a few streets over from the t-ball field in a small house with an overflowing flower garden. Anathema had always thought Calliope's house was much more suited for a witch than the mid century modern beach house she lived in with her mom.

They walked through the front gate and Anathema made several loud kissy noises. A large calico cat jumped from the swing on the porch and ran over to Anathema, who scooped her up.

“Everyone, this is Sir Topham Catt. Topham, this is everyone.” Topham started to squirm in Anathema’s arms and she placed the cat on the ground, and the cat started to weave in and out of Anathema’s ankles.

Aziraphale crouched. “Hello, Ms. Topham,” he said and the cat came and headbutted his hand a few times.

“She usually doesn’t like other people,” Anathema cooed.

“Well, I do have a way with animals,” Aziraphale replied. “Snakes are a specialty of mine.”

Crowley huffed and rolled his eyes. “One snake.”

Calliope opened the front door. “Come on in!” she called. Calliope was old enough to be Anathema’s grandmother. She was around the same height at Anathema and wore a green blouse, a long black skirt, and sensible shoes.

Anathema and Newt set the table as Calliope finished putting the meal together in the kitchen. After the table was overflowing with food, everyone sat and joined hands. Calliope gave a short blessing. “Thank you to the Goddess for this food and for friends new and old.” She turned to the table. “Anyone else?”

Aziraphale nodded. “Thank you to Her” - Calliope nodded approvingly at him - “Who gave humans crops, and thank you to humans for turning those crops into such delicious food. Erm, amen.”

At that Crowley sprang back from the table like the ball hit to start a pinball game and clung to the wall. Aziraphale looked at Crowley and then at the table. “Too much of a blessing?”

“HOLY WATER,” Crowley screamed, somewhat dramatically in Anathema’s opinion.

“Shall I banish it then?”

“I’ll be in the garden,” Crowley said and stomped outside.

Aziraphale looked torn between following Crowley and the food on the table. Decision made, he tucked his napkin into his shirt. “So you said these three dishes in the center of the table are salad and yet none of them have lettuce, _fascinating_.”

After lunch, the group headed to the backyard, where Crowley pretended he hadn’t been talking to the plants.

“You two must really love kids to volunteer to coach the tournament,” Calliope said, bending over to check the tomatoes.

“Not especially,” Aziraphale said.

“Definitely not,” Crowley said.

Newt sneezed.

“Bless-” Aziraphale started.

“Don’t you _dare_,” Crowley said, backing away.

“Shouldn't leave an open-ended spell,” Calliope said cheerfully as she straightened from the tomatoes. “Never know who or what will be around to finish it.”

“Bless the Third Musquacook Lake in Maine,” Aziraphale finished.

Crowley threw his hands up. “Oh, come on! Do you want to make a fountain of youth? Because that’s how you get a fountain of youth!”

☾ ☾ ☾

That night, at Aziraphale’s request, Crowley changed the $13 bottle of wine they’d purchased from Amazing Grapes - the local wine store - into La Romanee pinot noir. Crowley poured glasses for himself, Aziraphale, Anathema and Newt, and there was a toast and they drank and then he poured glasses a few more times.

“I might be too drunk to bike back to Auntie Calliope’s,” Anathema giggled.

Newt had slid to the floor at some point and had his head propped on Anathema’s knees. “I might be too drunk to say the word _bicycle_.” He giggled as well and sang “bicycle, bicycle, bicycle.”

“Well, there is a bed upstairs,” Aziraphale said. “Do take it.”

“We couldn’t,” Anathema said. “You two need to sleep somewhere.”

“Sleep, right, of course, that is something we do.” Aziraphale looked over to Crowley.

“Erm, we were planning on staying up and watching telly all night, so it’s no problem,” Crowley said nodding a few times.

Which is how Anathema and Newt ended up spending the night above Tome on the Range.

“I’ve spent most of my summers here since I was a little girl and had no idea this shop even had an upstairs,” she told Newt.

“The impermanence of memory,” Newt said, and trailed off, blinking a lot, and thinking about how he was pretty sure the store had only had one story earlier that day. 

There weren’t curtains in the window, so the bright sun woke them early. When Anathema realized she wasn’t going to be able to get back to sleep, she woke Newt and they started their mornings as they normally did.

Anathema was getting close when the door clicked open and Aziraphale walked in.

“Crowley!” he called over his shoulder. “Crowley, they’re _fornicating_!”

Crowley must have been only a few steps behind and slunk into the room. “So they are.” He took in Anathema pulling a sheet up and throwing a pillow at Newt to cover his crotch. “I think this is a private thing these days.”

“Right! Sorry!” Aziraphale said clapping his hands once. “Do carry on with the fornicating,” he said with a little bow and they finally left, shutting the door behind them.

“That was weird,” Newt said.

“No weirder than their normal level of weird,” Anathema observed, falling back onto her pillow.

☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

_ **One Week Before The 37th Annual Steve Walsh 6-and-Under Bigelow T-Ball Championship** _

Anathema and Newt - once their hangovers had worn off - spent the rest of the week enjoying small town America in the best of ways, mostly eating and chatting with neighbors and politely declining offers of tomatoes and summer squash.

On Tuesday, Aziraphale had tea with Eleanor Johnson, a 90-something-year-old widow who stopped by Tome on the Range at least weekly, despite not having bought a book since 1997.

“This reminds me of the tea my mother would make me when I was a little girl and we were snowed in,” she said inhaling deeply.

Aziraphale, who had used an itsy bitsy miracle to read her memories and make that exact cup of tea, nodded. “Isn’t that something.”

Eleanor had been a devout Lutheran until her sister, Evelyn, had won the church baking contest with a pre-made pie crust. Eleanor had switched churches that day and been a devout Episcopalian ever since. Her husband, Michael, had died some ten years past, and she had fretted about him ever since.

“He believed, I know it in my bones, but did he believe _enough_,” she mused to Aziraphale.

“I’m sure he is basking in the sterile hallways of heaven as we speak.” Aziraphale winced and tried to smile.

Crowley walked in at this moment, fresh back from tempting local parents to riot at the t-ball game. “Heaven,” he said wrinkling his nose and grimacing.

“Crowley, Eleanor is concerned that her husband might not have made the cut into Heaven.”

“I have prayed for him every night,” she said nodding.

“Michael Johnson? Michael _Thomas_ Johnson?” Crowley asked. He made a face. “Well, if he is in Hell, and who knows, he _might_ be, if he, say, embezzled thousands of dollars from the school cafeteria, and if he _was_ there, he’d probably still be in line doing paperwork. You can’t start the torturing until all those Ts are crossed and Is are dotted.”

Aziraphale leaned forward towards Eleanor. “I have it on good authority that Hell stopped actually crossing their Ts about two thousand years ago, as it was too close to that new-fangled holy symbol, the cross.”

Eleanor looked back and forth at Crowley and Aziraphale for five seconds before bursting out in laughter. “Oh, you two,” she said, grabbing Aziraphale’s knee, “thank you for making an old woman laugh.” She giggled to herself. “Paperwork in Hell, that’s a good one.”

On Wednesday, Aziraphale accidentally sold some books and closed up shop for the rest of the week.

The Saturday of the next and final practice was a beautiful day, bright and sunny with fluffy clouds in the sky, with low humidity and a gentle breeze.

“You’re being rather obvious,” Crowley said to Aziraphale as they walked towards the ball field.

Aziraphale smiled and wiggled his fingers. “I won’t tell if you don’t,” he said as Crowley smiled indulgently at him.

Crowley encouraged Susan lead practice again. Susan had come prepared with a megaphone. “Timothy, run as if your life depended on it,” she bellowed and Timmy ran like the wind. “Sophia, Santa won’t like it if you drop that ball,” she hissed and Sophia clutched the ball like a drowning man would hang onto a life ring.

Crowley made sure to let all the children know that if they won, he would personally hand each of them a candy bar. After practice, Peter and Peter’s sister, Paige, wanted to negotiate what size chocolate bar they would receive for winning.

“Coach Crowley,” Paige said, tapping her foot, “I think you saw our work on the field today and you know you can’t win without me and my brother. We want a king-sized bar.”

As giant candy bars were a pretty effective way to get kids to act, well, _devilish_, and tempt parents into terrible decisions, Crowley was already planning on it, but he pretended he was still thinking about it.

Ava, a right outfielder who spent her time on the field mostly picking marigolds, skipped up. “Coach Aziraphale is letting us pet his jackalope,” she said sweetly.

“His _what_?” Crowley yelled and quickly sauntered to the other side of the field where Aziraphale was surrounded by at least half of the kids, all of them jostling to pet a tiny grey bunny with the smallest of antlers on its cute little head.

Anathema and Newt noticed something was amiss, and followed Crowley.

“Aziraphale, a word,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale, Crowley, Anathema and Newt conferred around third base, Aziraphale clutching the box with the jackalope in it.

“So the thing is, well, the thing is jackalopes aren’t ... real.” Crowley looked apologetic.

“Weren’t real until today,” Anathema amended.

“Of course they’re real,” Aziraphale said with a smile plastered to his face. “I read about it in a book. A book with _pictures_.”

“Still not real,” Crowley said gently. “It was a joke.”

Aziraphale looked down at the animal in his hands. “Maybe this is part of Her ineffable plan?”

Crowley shook his head.

Aziraphale looked like he was about to cry. “Do I have to …” - he swallowed and his voice lowered to a whisper - “discorporate it?”

Crowley took the jackalope from Aziraphale’s hands. “I’ll deal with this,” he said firmly, tucking the box under his arm and grimly walking away.

☾ ☾ ☾

Crowley should discorporate it. He kept walking. He walked a few blocks over and knocked on the door of the Truslow family, and Olivia Truslow answered. Olivia was 15 years old and knew from the time she was three years old that she wanted to be a zookeeper.

“Olivia, hiya, got a funny one for you today.”

Olivia leaned forward and looked into the box. “An eastern cottontail juvenile!” She gently pulled the jackalope out with both of her hands. “With antlers?”

Crowley rubbed his face. “Yeah, could you just keep this thing and keep it from doing that rabbit thing of making more rabbits? I will pay you. With money.”

And with 500 dollars in her hand, Olivia waved goodbye to Crowley.

“Hey! I heard the t-ball team this year were the jackalopes!” she said as he was turning.

“Funny, that,” Crowley muttered as he kept walking.

  
☾ ☾ ☾

Anathema, Newt and Calliope were having breakfast together in Calliope’s kitchen a few days before the tournament. “I have a question for you,” Anathema said.

“Ask away!” Calliope poured coffee for everyone.

“It’s about Crowley and Aziraphale,” Anathema said.

“If you’re asking if I know they’re raging homosexuals, I do.” Calliope nodded. 

“No,” Anathema said. “I mean, yes, of course, the raging homosexuals bit, but my question was if you knew what they were apart from that.” She paused a moment. “I thought they were witches, but I’m not so sure now.”

“My money is on leprechauns,” Newt said with the complete confidence of someone who has no clue what is going on.

Calliope laughed. “They’re not witches. I doubt they have any magic at all. I saw Aziraphale try and fail three times to pull a quarter out of little Hailey’s ear." She turned to Newt. "And leprechauns aren’t real.”

“Well, there was the jackalope Aziraphale had at the last practice,” Anathema explained.

“The _what_?”

“They teleported us from the airport,” Newt said. “We were in the baggage claim and Crowley was talking about how he found Kansas too boring to drive through and asked if we minded” - Newt wiggled his fingers in a poor imitation of Crowley’s miracles - “ and then we were standing in the bookstore.”

Anathema nodded solemnly.

“You were tired from the long flight. Maybe you both were delirious with lack of sleep and slept for the ride?”

Anathema shook her head no. “We were in baggage claim and then a second later, we were in the bookstore.”

Calliope strode over to the door and locked it, and poured a line of salt in front of it. She closed the kitchen curtains and lit sage before coming and sitting back in her spot. “You two are sure about this?”

“We are,” Anathema said.

Calliope rubbed her temples. “Teleporting is supposed to be impossible, you know.”

“I know,” Anathema said nodding decisively. “And jackalopes.”

“So you decided not to mention this for almost two weeks because?”

Anathema swallowed. “So I kinda had a plan to use them in a spell, but I’m starting to think maybe that’s not a ... great ... idea.”

“What kind of a spell?”

“Protection,” Anathema mumbled into her hand.

“Who needs protection so bad that you would cast a spell with two men you don’t even know their magical status?”

Anathema twisted her face into a grimace. “Sir Topham Catt. And I haven’t exactly told them my plan.”

“You haven’t asked their permission?” Calliope looked incredulous. “And the _cat_?”

“I _know_,” Anathema said. “I was worried about Topham and looking at spell ideas and I found one that needed a few people, and I figured why not involve the two most powerful people I know, and then Topham would be protected and I can stay in England with Newt and everything would be fine.” Anathema was moments away from starting to cry.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Calliope said, scooting closer to Anathema at the table. “You know you can’t go through with the spell like this, so how are you going to fix it?”

“I think we need to find out what Crowley and Aziraphale are, first,” Newt said. “In case we need to leave town immediately, change our identities, and hope they never find us.”

“Crap,” Anathema said rubbing her face.

☾ ☾ ☾

  
Anathema was running out of conversation topics that she thought might lead to them telling her what they were. She talked about learning she was a witch; Aziraphale talked about finding his bookstore. She mentioned her favorite spell; Crowley talked about working on the M25.

“I think we need to just _ask_,” Newt finally said.

They were all - well, besides Crowley - drinking root beer floats at Little Deuce Scoop, the ice cream parlor, when Anathema finally decided to bite the bullet.

“So we were wondering what you two are,” she said, completely forgetting all of the ways she had rehearsed in her head how this conversation would go.

“_Are_?” Crowley said, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m a, erm, bookseller,” Aziraphale said cheerfully. “I have sold the occasional magazine, as well, mind you.” He beamed.

“Well, like, I’m human and a witch and Newt here is just a regular human, no offense, Newt. I, well, _we_ were wondering what you two are, since I don’t think you’re human.” Anathema’s heart was going to beat out of her chest. Newt gave her a squeeze on the knee.

Crowley threw his head back and laughed. He and Aziraphale caught each other’s eyes and nodded and gestured and finally Aziraphale pointed at Crowley.

Crowley leaned forward. “He’s an angel. I’m a demon.” Crowley slid his sunglasses to the tip of his nose and blinked strange reptile-like eyes at Anathema before sliding them back up.

“You're _shitting_ me,” Anathema said.

“It does explain the teleportation,” Newt said. “I think.”

“We do the occasional miracle,” Aziraphale said. “Not too many, don’t want” - here he pointed straight up, so either he didn’t want the pigeons on the roof to know, or heaven - “to keep too close of tabs on us.”

“No, of course not,” Newt said automatically.

While Anathema hadn’t believed in angels and demons a minute ago, it did make a lot of sense, right? It also probably explained what had happened at that air force base. Wait a second. “So Adam, that kid from Tadfield?” Anathema asked.

“Antichrist,” Aziraphale said brightly.

“Lovely kid,” Crowley said.

"Great kid," Azirphale confirmed.

“Yeah?” Anathema said glancing at Newt.

Newt shrugged his shoulders at her. He looked at Crowley and Aziraphale. “Erm, so these root beer floats are quite nice.”

☾ ☾ ☾

Calliope walked into her house and Newt was holding a pan and staring at the stove and Anathema had her head down on the table. “So how did it go?” she asked.

Anathema made a short squeal of frustration and didn’t move her head from the table.

Newt turned and waved the pan. “It went fine, I suppose.”

“And?” Calliope looked between the two of them. “Is everything ok, or do I need to alert the coven? Or the police?” She paused. “Or my Stitch 'n Bitch group?”

Anathema lifted her head, and tried to adjust her glasses that were laying across the table where she had left them. “Crowley called him _angel_ the first night we met. _Angel_.” Her head fell forward and made a _thunk_ sound as it met the table. She screamed again.

“So the garden that they were nattering about, was the … Garden of Eden?” Newt shook his head.

“Angels?” Calliope said looking at Newt. “They’re angels? Are angels even real?” She looked at Newt horrified. “Are leprechauns?”

“Not on this plane of existence,” Newt repeated, his smile falling off as he contemplated that the world was nothing like he’d been taught or experienced, again.

“Plane of ....” Calliope trailed off as she opened the top cupboard and pulled out a bottle of elderberry schnapps and three small schnapps glasses.

The three of them were all several glasses in when they heard a knock on the door and Crowley and Aziraphale wandered in.

“Oh, is this the famous elderberry schnapps that I’ve heard so much about?” Aziraphale asked expectantly. Calliope poured two more glasses as Aziraphale and Crowley sat themselves around the table.

“Divine,” Aziraphale pronounced after a few sips. “And I should know.”

Anathema hit her head on the table again.

“Anathema has something she’d like to tell you,” Calliope said.

Anathema pulled her head up to glare at Calliope, then looked to where Crowley and Aziraphale were sitting across from her.

“I do need to tell you something,” Anathema said. “And I want you to know that I screwed up and I know it.” She took a deep breath. “I brought you here to get the trophy, like I said but I am planning - well I _was_ planning - to do a protection spell using it. Um, for Topham. My cat.” She trailed off.

“The cat?” Crowley sounded incredulous, and then he started laughing. “Very devious. I approve.”

“Oh, Sir Topham Catt. All of Her creatures, great and small, like I always say.” Aziraphale was beaming until he looked down and his schnapps was gone. Crowley without looking poured more into his glass.

Anathema wasn’t finished. “I started the spell on the night of the new moon.” She took another deep breath. “I invoked your names.”

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said.

“Shit,” Crowley said.

“Unless maybe Crowley and Aziraphale aren’t your real names?” she said hopefully.

“They’re the names we use for ourselves,” Aziraphale said quietly. “Which are, of course, the most powerful names.”

“Can we just stop now? Anathema hasn’t completed the full moon portion of the spell.” Newt looked hopeful.

“Can’t leave a spell open,” Calliope reminded them.

“But we could redirect it.” Anathema said, finishing the thought.

They argued about where to redirect it.

Newt looked down at the town newsletter. “What if we did the spell at something that was going to be destroyed anyway?” He flipped the newsletter around and showed them the front page article: the firework show that was happening the night of the t-ball tournament.

“That just might work,” Aziraphale said said.

“Or it might backfire horribly,” Crowley said looking pleased.

☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

_**The Day of The Steve Walsh 6-and-Under Bigelow T-Ball Championship** _

The day of the t-ball championship had finally arrived. The weather was suspiciously nice, again. Aziraphale looked around happily. “Thank you,” he said to Crowley.

“It could have been the weather, you know. Nice days happen even here in Kansas.”

Aziraphale gave him a fond smile. “And how have the temptations been?”

Crowley smirked. “Good. I’ve managed to speak to most of the parents on both of the teams and promised them that their child is good enough to play the entire game or at least more than some other kid. They’ll be shouting at each other by the third inning.”

“But don’t forget we need to win this game for Anathema,” Aziraphale said waggling his finger.

Luke from Rudie Can’t Nail had brought the trophy and left it on a folding table next to the bleachers, a silver cup glued to marble base.

Newt nudged Anathema. “That’s it?”

Anathema nodded solemnly. “The cup was forged under the light of a harvest moon, so it’s good for channeling spells, especially long distance spells.”

Newt made a face. “Doesn’t look like much.”

They both were looking towards the field where Aziraphale and Crowley were attempting to wrangle very excited children into a line. Every time they got one kid back, another one had taken off.

“Looks can be deceiving.”

Newt nodded solemnly.

Both teams eventually assembled on the field, and the marching band played something resembling a song. "Play ball," Luke yelled and everyone politely clapped, and the game began.

The Bigelow Jackalopes and the Freeport Foxes were evenly matched, that is to say both teams were equally terrible.

And all of Crowley’s temptation work was overshadowed by the pure bliss of perfect weather. No parent felt like shouting or complaining when sitting outside was just so _nice_.

“There, there,” Ariraphale consoled Crowley as Susan got the next player ready to bat. “How were you to know that by giving me such a perfect day that you’d undermine your own work?”

Crowley sighed. If the breeze wasn’t so refreshing, he might actually feel bad about the situation.

The teams were tied 1 to 1 at the top of the final inning. The Freeport Foxes were up to bat first, and the first three kids were out on first. If the Jackalopes could get one kid to home, they’d win.

Hailey made it to first, then second, then third. The next two players were out and then it Peter was up to bat.

“You got my Skittles?” he asked Crowley with a glare.

“Enough Skittles that your mum will be cross at me,” he assured Peter.

Crowley used a minor miracle to tie the first baseman’s shoes together. Aziraphale made all of the clover in the outfield bloom.

Peter hit the ball squarely off the tee. Anathema, like in her own game almost two decades prior, helped the ball go a little farther, and it flew between the first and second basemen and into the outfield.

“Run, Hailey, run!” Susan shouted. Hailey ran, and as she crossed home, a cheer went up from the bleachers: the game was won.

Hailey ran right to Crowley. “Coach Crowley! Where is my candy?”

Crowley, relieved the game and his coaching career were over, miracled her a giant Flake bar. “Well done!” he said.

She looked at the candy in her hand. “This looks like poop." She laughed and skipped off.

There was a short ceremony on the field. Luke borrowed Susan's megaphone to thank the kids and their parents and the town. He invited Crowley and Aziraphale to the front and the players flocked after them. Luke tried to hand the trophy to Crowley, but Anathema stepped in and grabbed it. Luke finished the ceremony by inviting everyone to buy a square for Cow Pie Bingo.

“Pie!” Aziraphale perked up.

Anathema made a face. “No! Not that kind of pie.”

“Pity that,” Aziraphale said.

They passed the rest of the day with food and wine, and the marching band played three more renditions of “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” and one truly terrible attempt at “Hot Cross Buns.”

“They’re really getting better,” Aziraphale enthused.

“No, you’re getting drunker,” Crowley pointed out.

Aziraphale brightened. “Either way.” They clinked glasses.

At dusk, the group headed to the rooftop of the new second story of Tome on the Range. It gave them a bit of privacy for the spell, and it was a good place to watch the firework show. Newt and Calliope hung back, while Anathema, Crowley and Aziraphale knelt around the trophy. They all lit black candles, whispered the spell five times, and then at the same time, all three blew out their candles. “It’s done,” Anathema said, smiling weakly.

“Now we get fireworks,” Newt said happily.

“This Land is Your Land” played over the loudspeakers, and everyone settled into chairs and blankets. The first firework went off, a giant heart with an A and a C in the center.

“Fancier than usual,” Calliope remarked.

“This is so _embarrassing_,” Crowley groaned.

“Did we do that?” Anathema looked over at where Crowley was attempted to wedge himself under Aziraphale. “Ok, we did.”

The next firework was a snake that seemed to slither down the sky as the fireworks cascaded.

Aziraphale nudged Crowley. “Did you see?”

Crowley was now watching the show from behind his chair. "See what?" 

The next firework was a cherub wearing a bowtie shooting an arrow into a heart.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, catching on. “Oh dear. But I’m a Principality, not a Cherubim.”

They watched a half-hour of a firework show that was supposed to be 11 minutes. Wine being poured into a wine glass, rainbows exploding across the sky and too many hearts and books to count. Instead of ending on Springsteen’s “Born in the U.S.A” - which had been a staple for years - this year, it ended on Queen’s “We Will Rock You.”

“Of course,” muttered Crowley from under his chair.

As the song ended, a huge cheer went up from the crowd. Newt and Calliope collected their things started making their way back to their house. Anathema hung back for a moment.

“Thank you again for your help,” she said. “Both for agreeing to help in the first place and also for helping me fix the spell.”

“It was nothing,” Crowley said.

“It’s been a terrific holiday,” Aziraphale said. “Great weather, friendly people, giant portions of food. I could stay in Kansas forever.”

“Really?” Anathema asked incredulously.

“Actually, no.” Aziraphale shrugged. “Crowley is miracling us back to London after we have pancakes tomorrow morning at Dine Every Mountain.”

Newt turned back from where he was about to head down the stairs. “Would you have room for two more in that miracle?”

"No," Crowley said.  
  
"Of course!" Azirphale said.

Crowley groaned. "Fine."

"Best holiday ever!" Newt said.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> I grabbed Bigelow off a list of Kansas ghost towns, but didn’t put it anywhere specific in the state. Steve Walsh was a lead singer of Kansas the band, and to the best of my knowledge, there are no t-ball tournaments named in his honor.
> 
> A magic t-ball trophy is a nod at Douglas Adams’ cricket trophy in _Life, the Universe and Everything_. 
> 
> A quick reference for the puns:  
book store: **Tome on the Range** \- Home on the Range, a folk song, and the state song of Kansas  
book: **All About That Bass** \- pop song by the same name by Meghan Trainor; her song was about bass in a musical sense and the book is using it to mean bass the fish (same spelling, different pronunciation)  
restaurant: **Dine Every Mountain** \- Climb Ev'ry Mountain, a song from The Sound of Music  
bar: **Dead Poets Sobriety** \- Dead Poets Society, a film  
wine store: **Amazing Grapes** \- Amazing Grace, Christian hymn  
ice cream parlour: **Little Deuce Scoop** \- Little Deuce Coupe, a song by The Beach Boys  
hardware store: **Rudie Can’t Nail** \- Rudie Can’t Fail, a song by The Clash  
cat: **Sir Topham Catt** \- Sir Topham Hatt, from Thomas the Tank Engine / The Railway Series books
> 
> I am on [tumblr](https://numinousnumbat.tumblr.com/) and you can reblog this story [here](https://numinousnumbat.tumblr.com/post/615253571275997184/the-37th-annual-steve-walsh-6-and-under-bigelow).


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